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detect. Unfortunately.’
    Henning nods silently. They sit there looking at each other until Henning looks away. He knows that he has to find the person or persons who set fire to his flat and get them to admit it. It is the only thing that will satisfy him.
    His eyes wander to the junction.
    ‘So you think that someone was trying to get you? Kill you?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Well, that’s the big question. I don’t know. I don’t even know where to begin.’
    ‘And this happened two years ago?’
    ‘More or less.’
    Ophus looks at Henning for a long time. ‘Don’t you think they would have made a second attempt?’
    ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘Has anyone tried to kill you since?’
    ‘Not that I’ve noticed.’
    Ophus doesn’t reply but Henning can see what he is thinking all the same . It would suit you to be arson, wouldn’t it? So you can blame someone other than yourself?
    They listen to the traffic.
    Eventually, Ophus says, ‘I don’t think there is very much I can do to help you.’
    ‘That’s what I was afraid of,’ Henning replies, quietly.
    ‘You mentioned that you hadn’t seen the police report. Perhaps there is something in that which could be useful to you? I might be able to get you a copy of it, if you like.’
    ‘I don’t know if it will make a difference, but – but why not?’
    ‘They owe me a favour down at the police station. I’ll see what I can do.’
    ‘Thank you so much. I really do appreciate it.’
    Ophus straightens up, but Henning is aware that his eyes are still on him. He can’t bear to look him in the eye. So he says, without raising his gaze, ‘I don’t want to take up any more of your time than necessary, Ophus. Thank you so much for meeting with me.’
    ‘Not at all. You’re welcome to contact me if you think of anything else.’
    Henning smiles and nods. They shake hands before Ophus gets up and heads for the junction. He passes a man leaning against the whitewashed wall sucking at a thin roll-up, the embers barely alive.

Chapter 6
     
     
    Ørjan Mjønes presses his forehead against the United Airlines window and looks out over Oslo. Green trees surround Ekeberg Restaurant on the eastern slope of the city. Nearer the city centre people lie sunbathing, stretched out on the grass in Fjordbyen. The roof of the opera house sparkles like an ice floe in the sunshine. Below the belly of the plane, the red-brick towers of Oslo Town Hall stick up towards him like rotten teeth.
    The aeroplane glides slowly through the quiet air. The captain announces that they will be landing in a few minutes. Mjønes closes his eyes. It has been a long journey. A return trip to Bogotá, changing in Newark both there and back, and he hasn’t managed a wink of sleep the whole time. He had to make do with a thirty-minute power nap on a airport bench while waiting for the flight back to Oslo. Soon he will have spent thirty-five hours in the air. It has been exciting. It has been exhausting. But it has been worth it.
    It all started five days ago when he saw his fictitious contact name in the subject field in an advert on the website finn.no. Later the same day he called the number listed in the advert, which was answered by a voice he hadn’t heard for almost two years. Bearing in mind the rage in the voice the last time the two of them spoke, Mjønes hadn’t expected to hear from Langbein ever again, but they agreed to meet at the bottom level of the multi-storey car park under Oslo City Shopping Centre. Mjønes walked west until a sharp voice from behind a pillar ordered him to stop. A long shadow stretched out across the concrete.
    Mjønes did as he was told and looked around. He could hear tyres squeal in the distance, but he saw no one.
    ‘It has been a long time,’ he said, but Langbein made no reply. Instead, a C4 envelope was slid along the ground towards him. Reluctantly, he bent down to pick it up. He took out a photograph. There was a red cross covering the face of